


The Other of the Other

by bshiat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, fireside, fireside 2019, there's a cat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:27:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21926680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bshiat/pseuds/bshiat
Summary: We are the other of the other.― Marco AurelioWritten for Fireside Tales 2019, for the prompt above.
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Comments: 25
Kudos: 32
Collections: RS Fireside Tales Vol.2





	The Other of the Other

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Fireside Tales mods and of course gloom in particular - definitely got my derriere writing. This was a fun challenge for sure, spooky/creepy is a tough one for me but oh I do love the process hehe.
> 
> Thanks shessocold, shaggydogstail and luminousgloom for the beta!!

Remus wakes up drenched in sweat and panting. He didn’t even know that that could happen, and he’s had his share of nightmares before. One thing about this is familiar, though: his nightmares leave him with little to remember other than the chill in his bones and the clenching of his chest. He’s never been the type to remember his dreams, or nightmares. It’d been a problem in Divination.

He slowly rises up, knowing there’s little point in trying to go back to sleep. Sighing, he rubs his eyes and glances at the silent magical clock on the opposite wall. Only three in the morning. _Bloody wonderful,_ he thinks, annoyed. 

The howling wind is the only noise in the night, making his footsteps creak loudly in the darkness. He might need to look into some maintenance spells, he supposes, to stop the creaking floorboards. He doesn’t see himself moving out of this cottage any time soon, so might as well fix it up. 

Clink, clink, clink. 

He makes tea out of habit, but has no appetite to drink it, not really. He doesn’t have an appetite for much these days. 

What’s worse, he wonders. Is it abandoning his wife, or his son? Or is it that he’s more of a coward than his almost-godson, a boy barely of age? 

There’ve been so many times where he _almost_ went back. But he just can’t convince himself that it’s the right thing to do. He’d even thought about joining Harry on his mission, to at least have _something_ to do, but he’d chickened out in the end, and never asked Harry. 

Still, weeks later, his thoughts are oscillating back and forth. Is a single parent really better than a werewolf father? Won’t people know that Teddy’s his son, anyway, since Nymphadora had insisted on him having Remus’ last name? He rubs his forehead, putting the still-full teacup in the sink. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, not at all. He’s never felt so lost in his life, not even after James and Lily died. 

His train of intrusive thoughts gets interrupted by a sudden banging noise. It sounds like somebody’s trying to open the door. 

_Good luck, you idiot who thinks there’s something to steal from this old place,_ he thinks, only vaguely concerned. Despite his startlement, he trusts his charms are sound, and that the door won’t open for any thief trying to force their way in. 

It doesn’t occur to him until much later to worry about things worse than thieves. 

The banging sounds continue as Remus, wand in hand, slowly walks towards the door. At one point the thumping is so loud that he wonders if it’s a strong muggle trying to get in, rather than a wizard. His cottage is right on the edge of a magical forest, so he supposes that could be the case. 

Just as Remus is about to open the door, the noise stops. He gives it a few seconds, hand hovering just above the handle, but he can’t hear anything but the wind. After taking a step back to give himself some space to maneuver, he flicks his wand. But when the door creaks open, there’s nobody on the other side, only the hazy twilight air of Northumberland in September. 

~ 

It’s days before he hears any noise other than the rustling of leaves in the wind, or sounds he makes himself. It’s a cat, of all things, meowing at him from his small bedroom window. It doesn’t have a collar, but looks too well-groomed not to belong to anyone. 

He should try to find its owner, put up posters in the nearby town. He doesn’t. 

Instead, he allows the cat to settle in Lupin Cottage. Not that she stays in much, mind. She’s out hunting or whatever it is cats do in the woods more often than she’s curled up somewhere in the house. Still, Remus likes to think that Annie - he’s named the cat - has taken a liking to him. Whether it’s because of his indisputable charm and company, or the plentiful back scratches and a spot on the comfortable couch, well that doesn’t matter. 

Her presence relaxes him. He hadn’t thought of himself as lonely, not even in those moments where he missed his family so much it ached. He’d felt guilt and shame, of course, but not loneliness, not really. Annie’s company soothes him in a way he hadn’t realized he needed. And the occasional chores her existence presents such as opening doors and windows, or putting back things she’s knocked over, makes him feel useful. 

~ 

Nymphadora’s stopped owling him. No doubt she grew tired of his unresponsiveness. Moving on, probably. _Good for her. She’s a smart girl._

How he ever got a witch like her is beyond Remus. The fact that he couldn’t keep her is less surprising. 

He wonders, whenever he takes his nose out of books long enough to think, that is, what it would’ve been like, if Sirius hadn’t died. If he’d got pardoned and been a free man. Would Remus have left him too? Or would Sirius have left _Remus_ instead? Or maybe they would’ve ended up happily ever after. 

He laughs a bitter laugh. It sounds almost like choking. 

It’s telling that the thought doesn’t bring down his mood. Everything seems somber these days, and thinking about death and heartache doesn’t seem more or less of a downer than the thought before. 

Remus hears whirring from the back room. His first thought is that it’s Annie, but she’s on the armchair, sleeping, curiously oblivious to the sound. One of her ears twitch and Remus thinks that maybe she’ll open her eyes, but she doesn’t bother. He gets up, frowning, and decides to investigate. It sounds like static, almost, the kind muggle radios get. He walks around the house until he finds the source. 

It’s a television. It’s a muggle television, in his living room. He blinks once, twice, three times. Still there. If Sirius had been alive, he would’ve attributed this to one of his hijinks, but there’s no one in his life that would even think to purchase a muggle television that Remus knows. 

The low stool the television’s on moves to the side an inch with an ear-piercing screech. Remus jumps, completely taken aback. What in Merlin’s name is going on? He looks around the empty room, as if he can see hidden people without casting some sort of spell first. While his gaze is darting around, from the corner of his eye, he sees the television disappear. There’s no tell-tale popping sign of a spell, or house-elf magic. The television’s simply gone. 

He takes several deep breaths, steadying himself. He needs to think rationally. What could have happened? Someone could be playing pranks on him, but he can’t think of anyone that would. It could be a mistake, somebody mistakenly transporting their own television here instead of another room in their own house, but that seems unlikely, since Remus’ closest neighbour is three miles away. 

He’s not… He’s not _seeing_ things, is he? 

The thought is unsettling, and as soon as he thinks it, he can’t _not._ He’s been alone for a while now, and hasn’t been eating much. In fact, he can’t even remember his last meal. He should go and take care of that right now, before he starts to really go round the bend. 

~ 

It’s funny to think of it now, but Remus used to be terrified of the dark, when he was little. He can’t quite remember when it started, but he distinctly remembers being so scared some nights that he’d lie awake, eyes wide open, as if that’d keep whatever might be out there at bay. As an adult he can’t remember what it was that got him so worried, but he distinctly remembers the jaw-tightening raw fear. His child eyes would get somewhat used to the darkness and be able to make out a bit of the shapes of the objects in his room, but not well enough to settle his fears. He’d stare and stare, hoping that if he was careful enough, if he paid enough attention, he’d be safe, not caught unawares. 

Now, now Remus knows many spells to deal with what _really_ might lurk in the shadows, from boggarts to vampires. There’s still something about darkness that he’s not fond of, and he never travels without a small stick of candle, but he’s certainly not afraid of it like a child. 

That is why, when all of his lamps decide to no longer react to his light spells, he’s bemused, but not scared. It’s an unpleasant inconvenience, nothing more. 

He waits out the night, too restless to sleep, too annoyed to try to work on the problem with a meek wand light. As soon as the first rays of light signal sunrise, he gets to work. He runs his hands over the rough wood of the living room walls, thinking. He doesn’t think the cottage has muggle wiring, but most house magic is weaved into the whole of the place, not isolated. Not taking his left hand off of the wall, he walks slowly, fingers trailing the lines that twist and turn. This cottage has been with the Lupins for four generations, built from scratch by his great grandfather. It’s always felt cosy and simply _good_ to Remus. More homely even than the Potters’, in his humble opinion. 

_What’s wrong, then?_ he thinks at the house. _Why are you giving me trouble after so many years? Have I been a bad guest?_

The floorboards creak as he steps onto the staircase, and he feels a bit guilty. The fact that the steps are uneven isn’t the poor cottage’s fault. It needs more attention and care than Remus has ever given it. 

He notices that the lights are on in the spare bedroom, what used to be his own bedroom once upon a time. 

_What? How’s that on?_ he wonders. 

He doesn’t understand how he could’ve missed the source of light in the pitch darkness of last night. It’s more important to figure out the puzzle of why that one is working so he can fix the rest, so he focuses on that instead. In fact, he’s so concentrated on it, that it takes him a little while to notice that there’s a painting in the room. Once his eyes land on it, he forgets about the light. It’s covering the slightly discoloured portion of the wallpaper, where he’d once hung a poster, and his parents hadn’t bothered to change the wallpaper after he’d left. 

It’s a painting of James, Sirius, and himself. His feet feel like lead as he steps towards it. He remembers this scene, it’s painted from a photograph he’d given Hagrid to give to Harry. Peter had been in the photo, too, but he’s not painted. The painter’s done a good job of making it seem natural, though, as if he’d never been there. 

He reaches out, the unsettling, gripping feeling in his chest getting stronger, and touches its frame. He’s expecting it to feel like any other frame, like unfinished wood perhaps, or muggle plastic. Instead, it feels unnaturally smooth, very cold, and… wet? 

“Bugger me,” he whispers out loud. He takes a few steps back, his eyes fixed on the painting, where three young men are smiling and joking around silently. On his fourth step back, he trips over - he doesn’t know what - and falls. 

His first thought is that, despite the instinctive thinking of “ow”, he doesn’t actually feel any pain. His second is that he can’t get up. 

“I can’t feel my legs,” he says pointlessly into the empty room. If somebody’s playing tricks on him, it’s unfathomably cruel. 

~ 

He wakes up groggy. Blinking a few times, he tries to make sense of his surroundings for a little while before noticing that he’s on the living room couch. He must’ve dozed off while waiting for dawn. But then… Was it a dream? The portrait? 

Before he can think any further, he hears the staircase creaking again, and a slight scratching noise. For a moment he’s scared and reaching for his wand, then he relaxes, remembering. He sighs, and puts his arm over his head. Annie’s both a blessing and a curse, sometimes. He loves having the cat around, but not when he’s already on edge. And dreams with Sirius in them never fail to put him right there. 

_Edge of a cliff, it feels like,_ he thinks bitterly, getting up and going into the kitchen. The light investigation can wait until after breakfast. 

He can’t find his tea cup. 

He’s looked everywhere he could think of, which, considering the fact that he lives alone, shouldn’t even be necessary. There’s a spot for his cup in the cupboard right on top of the sink, and _his cup isn’t there._ Nor is it in any of the other cupboards, or the coffee table, or on the floor next to his armchair. It’s simply disappeared. He half-suspects Annie of having run off with it, but he can’t imagine her carrying the thing out. 

He decides to grab another, less favourite cup, and goes back to the sink. Just as he’s about to reach for the cupboard, he notices that it’s dirty. There’s… There’s red blots on it, blots that look suspiciously like blood. He frowns and looks down at his hands, and sees that they’re both covered too. 

_I’m still dreaming,_ he concludes. _That’s the only explanation._

He hears something tumbling, then a sound like a door slamming upstairs and jumps in surprise. Has Annie got to knocking his books off of his desk, again? As soon as the thought appears, he dismisses it. He has much, much bigger problems right now. He looks back down at his hands, but they’re clean. He twists and turns them, confused. Not a spot on them. If anything, they look unusually clean, not even an ink stain on his fingertips. 

_I’m losing my mind, I really am,_ he thinks, and tries to determine whether the thought is scary or not. On the one hand, it’s terrifying to be losing the plot at this age, but on the other hand, maybe he’ll find a more peaceful life, like his grandfather had in his late nineties. 

His curiosity gets the better of him, and he walks upstairs to his bedroom to see what Annie’s got up to. He’s half expecting he’ll see the painting again, and is mildly looking forward to it. Even in a painting created by his fading mind, seeing his friends is eerie but pleasant. 

What he finds when he enters the bedroom manages to make him stagger. Not only is the blasted painting hanging right there, the muggle television’s back, too, right across from his old bed. 

He spends the whole day trying to remove the television, to no avail. It won’t budge. He tries a few spells - even an explosive one - and nothing but smoke and noise. The television sits there, mocking him. 

He doesn’t try to touch it with his hands. Something tells him not to. Every time he raises his hands towards it, he feels as if he’s been hit by a stunning spell. Around dusk, he gives up, and sits down on the floor next to it, back resting on the wall. He sighs and bangs his head onto the wall for a little while. _What’s happening to me?_ he wonders. 

“Poltergeist, maybe?” he says out loud. He wonders where Annie is. Cats are good at sniffing out poltergeists. Her reactions would help him find the thing, if it’s indeed haunting his house. 

As if on cue, he hears distinct whispers. He can’t make out the words, of course, but it’s just like tricky poltergeists to whisper nonsense in attics and old houses, trying to worry its inhabitants. He has enough to worry about without being fooled with, he thinks angrily, and gets up. 

A quick walk around the house proves him right: Wherever he goes, the whispers don’t seem to get any closer or further away, meaning it’s most definitely a trick, and not a real noise. He could stay up all night trying to find the bloody thing, but he decides that it’s not worth it, not when he’s so exhausted. Besides, darkness gives the creature an advantage, and Remus doesn’t need that. 

~ 

This time he wakes up in his own bed, thankfully. He’s less grateful for what he sees on his bedside table, though. It’s a letter from Nymphadora. He knows because she’s used that smooth, fancy paper she likes with the corners painted in blue. It’s not that he ever forgets about her or Teddy, but stark reminders like this don’t make the days any easier. He’s definitely going to need a drink after this, he thinks, as he rips open the cold envelope. 

It’s gibberish. No, it’s not even gibberish, it’s… She hasn’t even used an actual alphabet, at least none that he knows of. It’s a series of squiggles and lines. He frowns at the letter, trying to decipher what on earth she might be trying to tell him. He reckons maybe it’s some sort of code that the Order is using now - there _is_ still a war going on after all - and she’s forgotten that he’s out of the loop. Some tea will help him wake up, surely, and then maybe he can make sense of it. He drops it onto the bed and makes his way downstairs. 

Before he’s even halfway down the stairs, he hears distant chatter. Remembering yesterday’s events and the poltergeist, he swears to himself for not grabbing his wand, and goes back upstairs. Wand in hand, he walks down again. This time it isn’t whispers like yesterday, it’s very clearly people talking - more than one - but he can’t understand a word they’re saying, right in line with a poltergeist trick. When he opens the door to the kitchen, however, the talking noises stop, but there’s no poltergeist giggling either. The kitchen is simply empty, and the only sound is the slight hissing of the wind making its way inside through the cracks in the window frame. 

“I’m done playing,” he says out loud to the poltergeist. “Go somewhere else, maybe somewhere with kids who want to play. I don’t have time for this.” The last sentence is rather ironic, but he knows that the best chance of getting rid of the poltergeist is to show adult disinterest. Poltergeists _are_ kids, really, after all, and want back-and-forth. 

The front door opens forcefully with a bang of the knob against the wall, and Remus swears in surprise at the sudden noise. He smiles as he walks towards it though, because hopefully this is the poltergeist’s annoyed way of telling Remus that he’s leaving. 

When he reaches the door, he sees Annie passing through it, as if the door had been opened specifically for her. He hadn’t heard her scratching the door frame or anything, and he doesn’t think the loud banging would’ve attracted any creature let alone a cat, but… There she is, ambling past peacefully as if the door had been opened slowly and kindly to let her in. 

“An odd one, aren’t you?” he tells her as he slowly closes the door. The wind must be slowed down, because it closes with surprising ease, as if it weighs nothing. Annie stops walking and blinks up at him twice. “Let’s go see if there’s anything for you to eat in the kitchen, shall we?” 

He feels a sudden rush of cold pass through him. The door’s closed, so it can’t be a wind chill, but it feels like it. Humid, cold wetness passes through his right side like a gust of wind. Then just like that, it’s gone. 

He really needs caffeine. “Go on then,” he says, and they go back into the kitchen. 

Before he gets a chance to hand her anything, Annie’s already gotten into a wrapper and is happily licking away at it. He takes a closer look and sees that there’s a small piece of ham left in the wrapper. He doesn’t remember even buying ham, let alone almost finishing it off, but then again, he’s very forgetful these days. Shaking his head, he lets Annie have her way with the last of the meat. Least he can do for the company, really. 

His tea’s gone cold, and he sighs, muttering a quick warming charm. As he does, he glances at the table where Nymphadora’s coded letter is laid flat, calling for him. He bends down and looks at the squiggles and lines again, trying to see a pattern or any shapes that repeat at all, to try to work it out. It’s been so long since he’s had to decode anything, and he’d never been that good at it. James had been the master of that one, with Sirius not far behind. 

As if on cue, he hears Sirius’ voice. The memory is so real that it feels as if he’s really heard it, as if Sirius is in the room. “Oh, Moony,” the imaginary Sirius is saying sadly, and hearing it evokes memories that Remus would rather see buried. Sirius had rarely, rarely sounded sad. Not that he was a particularly chipper bloke - Merlin knew he had a temper - but he wasn’t one to dwell on things, not until Azkaban, where all he’d been able to do was dwell. Remus had loved him all the same, but seeing that bright light that was Sirius in his youth being all but gone had been difficult. Nymphadora’s letter is just as meaningless to him as it was a moment ago, but even if she’d written in plain English, he might not have understood it right now, when his mind’s on Sirius again. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a split-second apparition of Sirius, sitting on a kitchen stool. When he whips his head to the side, but there’s nothing there, of course. Just his imagination. Still, he finds himself drawn to the stool, and raises his right hand towards it, as if he’ll be able to put his hand on a sitting Sirius’ shoulder. But, predictably, all he feels is the humid, chilling cold. 

_I need to fix the cracks in the windows,_ he thinks idly, listening to the soft hissing and creaking of the house. 

For a moment, hand frozen above the stool, he wonders if he’s being poisoned. His poltergeist theory seems less and less likely, with the curious happenings being less and less playful, and more and more personal. The gibberish letter… None of the shapes repeat, it is no code. It’s just somebody trying to mess with Remus’ mind, or somebody who’s managed just that, poisoned his tea leaves or something, making Remus lose his mind slowly but surely. 

His tea cup crashes onto the floor, breaking into a thousand pieces. Annie meows and runs out of the kitchen. 

He steps around the shards, not bothering to clean them just yet, and reaches for the cabinet. He chucks out all of his tea bags, and goes upstairs. Sleep will help. Sleep always does. He can’t use any of the droughts now - too risky, he doesn’t know what’s poison and what’s not - so he’ll have to rely on his mental exhaustion to pull him to sleep. 

The sounds of the wind seems louder somehow, despite there being no window close to the old stairs. He looks around aimlessly, trying to make sense of all this. That’s when the soft whispers start again - _No,_ he corrects himself. _My mind’s playing tricks on me. No whispers. No Sirius. He’s dead. I need to sleep this off, get it out of my system._ He goes to wash his face before he heads to bed. 

When he staggers into his bedroom, Sirius is there. He’s holding Nymphadora’s letter, sitting on Remus’ bed. The apparition drops Nymphadora’s letter onto the duvet and looks around the room while Remus stares at it, stunned in place. His heart’s racing. It doesn’t matter how fake this all is, it _feels_ so real. And Sirius - the apparition - doesn’t look like his dreams, either. It’s an older Sirius, looks about the same as when he fell through the veil. 

He wonders if whoever’s doing this thinks he’ll give information about Harry in his weak state, but he’d never. If a fake Sirius were to ask him about Harry, Remus wouldn’t answer. He’s no fool, he’d kill himself before he did that. He’d meant it when he’d told Peter that dying was the right option, when it came to betraying your friends or not. 

Unable to tear his eyes away from the apparition, he stands still for a bit, while the anger and bitterness within him boils. How dare they, whoever is doing this? They should raise their wand and fight like a wizard, not… Not play games like this. After one last look at his handsome friend’s imitation, he turns around and runs downstairs. He puts barriers up on every single wall, every crevice where a human or rat might enter with real, albeit wet, wood and magical spells. It takes him hours but he doesn’t care. Nobody’s getting in here again, no one. When he comes to the door, the last opening in and out of the house, he pauses. He calls for Annie who, surprisingly, does come. 

“You need to skeddaddle, Annie. I won’t open the door again for…” He tries to calculate on the fly how much food he has left. He can’t remember, but wagers a guess. “A week or so.” 

Annie tilts her head, listening, but doesn’t make a move towards the door. Instead, she turns her head back towards inside the house. 

“Alright then,” Remus says, nodding in agreement. “You and me, a week alone.” 

He locks the door and puts chains on it, ones he used to use before he strengthened the basement door. 

The exhaustion finally must’ve got to him - he doesn’t even remember falling asleep, but he wakes up, again, on the couch in the living room. He shields his eyes against the light with his hand. After a few seconds, his mind wanders back to what he was doing just before he fell asleep, and he jolts upright. _Light?_

Sure enough, not only the wooden planks are gone, but the curtains are drawn, too, and the soft afternoon light is bursting into the room. All his work, for nothing. Or… Or was _that_ part the dream? 

He hears people talking again, it sounds like a woman and a man. He even hears some clinking and scraping of dishware, as if they’re in the kitchen having a chat over supper. 

There’s no question that something’s wrong, anymore. The only question is what. Remus’ mind is fuzzy, and he can’t seem to get a handle on what’s real and what’s not. He’s so confused. He tries to remember what he’s drunk or eaten lately, to see if indeed he was poisoned, how it could’ve been done. But he can’t recall it at all. Hours and days seem to blend together in his memories, and he feels as if he’s drunk without the pleasant lightness of alcohol. 

His hand leaves a print on the arm of the couch as he gets up, but he doesn’t even bother questioning the copper-colored stains. Nothing makes sense any more. 

Defeated and confused, he lets his feet drag him in the direction of the sounds he’s hearing in the kitchen. This time they don’t fade into distant whispers like the times before, although he still can’t quite make out the words. 

In the kitchen, the fireplace is ablaze, and as soon as he sees it, Remus hears the crackling sounds to go with the visual. Sirius is sat across from it, on the table, playing with his food and looking at McGonagall’s face in the fire. 

At first the words are incomprehensible just like before, but just as she finishes talking, he manages to make sense of the last two words: “...then, Sirius.” With that, her face disappears as the floo call ends. 

Sirius sighs, and takes eats a forkful of pasta. He’s frowning, as if eating is a big chore, and Remus finds himself staring at him again. Real or not, Sirius is fascinating to look at. 

“Stupid werewolf,” Sirius huffs between bites, and Remus hears it clear as day. He doesn’t even remember moving, but suddenly he’s closer to Sirius, ready to hear any word the apparition might let him. 

“It’s called apparating,” Sirius says, then continues eating. 

And it’s as if the floodgates open. Suddenly, suddenly it all makes sense. Even Nymphadora’s letter flashes back in front of his eyes, and the squiggles and lines turn into words in his mind. “I wish you’d come to me,” her letter had said. “We could’ve found a way. We even found a way out of the veil for Sirius, surely we could’ve found a way to protect Teddy.”

He remembers when they’d broken into the cottage, hissing and speaking in low voices the way Death Eaters seem to think will scare people. It had worked, in a way. He hadn’t been immediately scared - he could take out two foolish Death Eaters trying to get information. But if he was being targeted this way, he couldn’t see a way out. No matter where he ran, more would be sent after him. He was probably seen as the last link to Harry. And maybe, if he kept running, they’d try to use Teddy to lure him back, and he couldn’t have that. 

It’d been blissfully quick, but not as quick as a killing curse would’ve been - pity one couldn’t easily cast that on oneself. He remembers the blood gushing out of his stomach and his hands instinctively covering the gash, covered in blood. He doesn’t remember his final moments, but he does remember thinking that, ironically, the copper blood on his couch reminded him of the Gryffindor common room with its crimson couches and warm fireplace. He’d hoped that Teddy would have a good childhood, that he’d enjoy Hogwarts, that he’d have as good friends as Remus had been blessed with, for a while. That his life would be easier now with a dead dad instead of a cowardly one in hiding. 

He’d smiled, as he’d lost consciousness, thinking of being young, being with his friends, the thought of war and pain a distant reality.


End file.
